


It's The Rising

by color_my_day_softly



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Lifetime of longings, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Or as I call it - Day6 as cryptids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 01:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18201845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/color_my_day_softly/pseuds/color_my_day_softly
Summary: There is music in the mist.Some people hear it, though it is rarely admitted beyond gaze that brightens in understanding when the subject somehow surfaces, making even sunlight grow a little hazy, or a hummed little tune. It’s not that you  are afraid, but there are things not meant to be discussed.But no one hears the voice.At least you do not think anyone else does. Because why would they resist it, then? Why are you?





	It's The Rising

There is music in the mist.

Some people hear it, though it is rarely admitted beyond gaze that brightens in understanding when the subject somehow surfaces, making even sunlight grow a little hazy, or a hummed little tune. It’s not that you are afraid, but there are things not meant to be discussed.

But no one hears the voice.

At least you do not think anyone else does. ~~Because why would they resist it then? Why are _you_?~~ Floating from listener to listener is the knowledge that the music is unique, yet hauntingly similar for everyone, but no one ever speaks of the singing.

For you, it’s always been there. On autumn nights, when fog would fill the valley next to your home like an overflowing cup, someone sang in the distance, like a lullaby that kept you awake instead, filling head with strange imagery. 

Not that it’s something your mind has ever lacked, even when no one is singing at all.

It is a strange voice for mist, you think. Then again, who can judge what is the right one? Part of you still believes it should be ethereal and high and it’s not that this voice _cannot_ be such. But it never loses a sort of roughness to it, like the big stone in the field that always feels warm under your touch.

You wonder if there is someone out there, someone who can only be here when the borders are obscured by the fog, someone who is looking for a way or perhaps for the singer, it is much like leaning out of your house’s window and singing about your day, your dreams just because you can. Songs that are happy, songs that settle in your chest with familiar ache, songs that make you cry and sometimes you do not even know why, songs that you almost, _almost_ cannot relate, but in the end you do - and that’s what scares you.

But maybe it really is the mist itself, like an echo of everyone who had lived, live. They say water has memory. Perhaps it transcends from one form to another. Distorted, like bottom of impossibly clear lake - much further than it appears and the angle might not be right either. It really could be one of your ancestors, making you sit up until 6am and watch how the fog simmers in the valley, spilling over into the garden and the fields. Wondering what it would be like if a form emerged from it, the voice finally close enough for the words to be distinguished.

Because that’s the thing - you never hear the words, just the voice and the emotion with which it rises and falls in the distance, subdued notes plucked from a guitar. Never clear enough to know what is said, just how it feels and tingles in your fingers when you try to create the music, never getting it quite right. You do not even try to sing.

Perhaps that’s the reason why other people know when someone hears, how they come together, as if guided by the notes that brushed past their souls one (or many) foggy night. The attempts to tap out, strum or whistle out the song that came to you that night, familiar to others even if they’ve not heard exactly that one, light acknowledgment in eyes and from thereon, it’s almost like the two of you, too, have a bond. A secret that never had to be said, a club you’re both part of without knowing the merits or price of the membership.

That is how you meet most of your friends.

But then you have to move to the big city, to follow your dreams that feel as unclear as all that which mist hides but no less real than the songs in the night.

And suddenly, you’re alone. People who hear rarely leave, because the music never follows. When someone passing through catches mist melodies, they almost always return. You never wondered why, you just…

Thought you might be different again, that the voice would not leave you. That it would always sing when the fog would ascend on the unsuspecting buildings, turning the ceaseless adverts and other light-noise into gentle fairy lights or drowning them out completely.

Sometimes it almost feels like it’s there - you swear you catch few stray notes, familiar muffled tone, but at best, it is a street singer trying their luck late into the night. Sometimes a look of _understanding_ dances between you, when you put your as generous as you can afford tip. Other times, it is just your mind trying to soothe you, but it hurts instead and makes you question your sanity like the songs never did before.

You never visit home, afraid that you will never leave again if you do. And there are things you must do before you settle down. Time makes it both better and worse - you think of the music less often these days, but when you are sad or something reminds you of it, the ache of longing is overwhelming as is fear that one day, you will lose the shape of the voice, the dips and nuances in songs you’ve heard. That you will never know such comfort with anyone, anything again.

There is no running away forever, especially when you _don’t_ want to run. So, eventually, you cave into your family’s and friend’s invitations and return to your home city - the celebration of new birth is just an excuse for this sudden spontaneity. Which is not so sudden at all, when the fall has dripped loneliness in your bones and the hearth in your soul is filled with embers of longings. And, you think absently as familiar road welcomes you, if you end up staying, you’ve done most of what you had to do in the big world already.

Everything that has remained constant makes you smile. And the things that have changed are for the best. The one that startles you, however, is the different mentality of the newer hearers. Silent acknowledgment is not enough for them anymore, instead they seek each other more openly, speak of the songs and share the experiences. You knew of the blog that wrote about each fog drenched night and song, but seeing it unravel in front of you is something else.

You are afraid of the backlash, but the public has taken to it better than you could have expected. Likely because music has never lured anyone to any harm, no half forgotten whispers speak of souls lost in the fog. It must be why others have tolerated it all through the ages, the concern subdued, as if you had somehow caught a strange, non-communicable disease that does not seem to hurt you.

Yet, a tremor trickles down your spine when you think of headlines about the music in the mist, about people storming your city in search for sensation and home. Am I selfish, you ask yourself, for wanting to keep it to yourself, in the folds of silence that you and your friends shared.

Despite doubts in your eyes, they invite you for a listening.

When you ask why they would seek the source of music out, they ask in return - why not? You do not have answer for that, not one you feel they would understand. But still you join them.

There is excitement trembling in the air between all of you, rising in the air like the smoke of the campfire. Hardly anyone speaks, as if afraid to disturb the fog that should claim the land tonight. You feel both right and incredibly out of place. As you always have.

And then it starts, on the edge of your hearing, like a gentle ripple and your heart falls, falls through your rib cage and right into the wave of the notes. Soft gasp of someone beside you barely registers, just enough for you to realize it has reached all of them. Some join hands, others hum along and you have to admit that experiencing it together and so _close_ really is something else.

But now that you’ve sipped from this cup, you cannot stop anymore. You don’t know when exactly you stood up, but you step out of the circle of light. Once upon a time, you wished the singer would come to you, but now you know dreams rarely do. They are meant to be followed. Chased and, eventually, held.

You don’t run - you’d not hear the song as clearly if your own ragged breathing filled your ears -, but you walk with almost-certainty deeper and deeper into the mist. The campfire is long since gone from sight, you know that without looking back. But the words still elude you and the desperation increases when you notice moon somewhere far above, nestled in a tree like a watcher of your plight.

One song turns into other, rising above the breathing ground in more alert sound, as if he knows you’re coming and doesn’t quite know what to do about it and you realize it’s closer now. So much closer. And when you squint, it is almost as if fog is parting just enough to give you way without abandoning you.

And then you are running, maybe flying, because someone is standing ahead and you have to reach him. When you stretch out your hand - to hold, stop, believe - he does the same, leaving guitar to vibrate out the last low note.

Moonlight reclaims his face from mist, apprehension there almost stalling you. (But you’ve waited too long to stop and his features are too much like a blurred, comforting dream.) Then he smiles so brightly, you briefly wonder if the day has arrived unannounced.

Your fingers touch and you are home. You have voice and it soars with his.

You finally know the words.

**Author's Note:**

> Take the ending as you will! :) And let me know how you do take it~  
> Tumblr: Dorks6  
> Twitter: color_my_day


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